The Man in the Moss (69 page)

           
'What a bloody awful night,' she said. Now they were up
in the hills it was coming down so hard the wipers could hardly keep up. 'I
wonder what witches do when it's pissing down.'
           
'What?' Almost a croak.
           
'Witches.'

           
'What about witches?'

           
'It's Hallowe'en. I was wondering what witches do when
it's raining this hard. Whether they call it off. Or do it in the sitting room.
Can't dance naked in this, can you? Well, I suppose you
could.
You're on a pretty short fuse tonight, Roger.'
           
'No, 'I'm not,' he snapped.

           
'Why don't you just tell me what's bothering you. Apart
from the usual, of course.'
           
He didn't reply.

           
Sod this, Chrissie thought. 'Anyway, it was my
understanding that your friend John Peveril Stanage lived in Buxton or somewhere.
Why, pray tell, is he holding his Hallowe'en party in Bridelow?'

           
'Look.' It was too dark to see but she could tell his
hands were throttling the steering-wheel. 'It's not a party. It's just a
gathering. A few drinks and ... a few drinks.'

           
'But not a party.' She was starting almost to enjoy this.

           
'And the reason it's In Bridelow ... the Bridelow
Brewery's been bought by Gannons Ales, right? And it now emerges that Stanage
has been a major Gannons shareholder for some years and recently increased his
holding, oh ... substantially. Is now, in fact, about to become Chairman of the
Board.'

           
'I suppose he's got to do something with all his book
royalties and things. Apart from setting up bogman museums.'

           
Roger didn't rise to it, kept on looking at the road,
what you could hope to see of it. 'Seems Shaw Horridge - that's the son of the
original brewery family - is about to become engaged to Stanage's niece. They
own Bridelow Hall. Which is where we're going.'

           
'I'll probably be underdressed,' Chrissie said, putting
on a posh voice, 'for
Braidelow Hawl.'

           
If it was
that
innocuous, why was Roger so nervy?

           
'Where's your wife tonight?'

           
'Working.'

           
'How are things generally?'

           
'So-so.'

           
'Everything all right in bed these days?'
           
'Chrissie, for Chr—' He hurled
the car into low gear and raced up a dark, twisty hill.

           
'No clammy, peaty feelings any more?'
           
'What the hell's the
matter
with you tonight?'

           
'What's the matter with
you
?'

           
When they crested the hill she saw a strange blue moon.
'What on earth's that?'

           
'It's the Beacon of the Moss,' Roger said in a voice that
was suddenly tired. 'Look, I'm sorry. Sorry I ever got committed to Stanage. I
admit I'm in too deep, all right?'

           
She saw the bog below them. In the headlights it looked
like very burned rice-pudding.

           
'It's as though he owns a piece of me,' Roger said.
'Bought me just as surely as he's bought Gannons Ales. I mean, last weekend,
when I went to London ... Chrissie, I didn't go to London. I was at Stanage's
place.'

           
'In Buxton?'

           
'In Buxton, yes. That's where ... Look, I'm a scholar, an
academic, not religious, not impressionable. I'm basically a very sceptical
person, you know that.'

           
Chrissie stifled it. 'Absolutely.' She allowed herself a
deep, deep breath. 'But tell me this: who gave the bogman a penis?'

           
Roger slowed down for the causeway across the Moss. He
seemed to slump on the wheel; she could have sworn she actually heard him gulp.

           
'I did.'

           
Ha!

           
'I used a piece of gut, what they thought was part of the
duodenum.' He sounded relieved to be telling someone. 'Moulded with peat and
something Stanage gave me ... a ... a stiffening agent.'

           
How ridiculously sleazy it sounded. Hadn't done much
laughing, though, had she, when she saw the thing lying there projecting its
bloody great menacing cock into the lights?

           
Actually, it was pretty sick.

           
They set off very slowly across the causeway. It seemed
to be raining harder than ever here.

           
'Why?' she said. As if she really didn't know. Scholar.
Academic. Sceptic. Not impressionable. Ha.

           
'He insisted it'd ... you know ... do the trick. Said I'd
obviously become very close to the bogman, and the bogman had - this sounds
very stupid - power. And I should use it.'

           
'You didn't laugh in his face because you needed him.'

           
'
No! I didn't laugh because
... because he isn't a man you can laugh
at.
You'll know what I mean when you meet him. Look, do you really think I'd go
discussing my private difficulties with ... well, with anyone? I mean, my
bloody wife's a
doctor
, and I
couldn't talk to her about it. Of course, I did think things would be different
with you.'

           
'Because I was a bit of a slag, I suppose. And not very
bright in comparison with Doctor Mrs Hall. And because I was impressed with
this big glamorous archaeologist who was on telly a lot, and flattered.'

           
'No, of course not, what do you think I... ?'
           
'Stick to honesty, Roger, you
were doing very well. So you discussed your little ... problem with Mr
Stanage.'
           
'I didn't intend to. Well,
obviously. He just seemed to know. He looked at me ...
into
me, almost. Smiling faintly. As if he'd decided to find
something out about me that I didn't want him to know. And then he said,
"Try something for me, would you?" Sympathetic magic, he called it. I
knew if I didn't give it a go, he'd know somehow. And if anyone saw it, I'd
just blame the students. But then ...'

           
'But then it started to work,' Chrissie said. Or
something did. Probably the power of suggestion.

           
'As you know,' he said.

           
'You must have been half-dismissive and half-elated. And
half-frightened, I suppose. I know that's three halves, but I'm not very
bright, as we established. God almighty, Roger, what
have you got yourself into?'

           
'He's ... a strange man. His knowledge is very extensive
indeed. But, yes, there is something I can't say I like.'

           
'Some of his books are very weird, Roger.'

           
'I haven't read his bloody books.'

           
'You should.'

           
'Just keep your mouth shut when we're there, that's all.'
           
'At the party?'
           
'It's not. . :'
           
'What is it, then?'

           
Roger drove up off the causeway, past the entrance to the
big stone pub, The Man I'th Moss, and into the main village street. Halfway up
the street, greasy light seeped out of a fish and chip shop, but it seemed to
have no customers; not surprising in this weather. The blue moon turned out to
be shining out of the church wall - must be a clock with a face each side of
the steeple. But no hands, no numerals. How strange.

           
The clock lit up the inside of the car and Roger's
bearded face. Chrissie began to feel uneasy.

           
'Come on, then,
Roger.'
As if the blue clock was lighting him up for interrogation. 'What
else are you hiding?'

           
'Yes.' He turned right before the church, back into
darkness. 'I'll tell you. Stanage says he can get the body back.'

           
'Oh, yes. Who from?'

           
'I don't know.'

           
'How?'

           
'I don't know.'
           
'What do you know?'

           
'He says we should all get together, those of us who've
been close to him.'
           
'Him?'
           
'Him.'

           
Chrissie lit a cigarette. 'Turn 'round,' she said.
           
'What?'

           
'Turn the fucking car 'round, Roger, I'm not having
anything to do with this.'

           
He stopped the car abruptly in the narrow road and it
skidded into the kerb. The rain drummed violently on the roof and splashed the
dark windows. It was savage and relentless, like a thrashing from God.

           
'Chrissie, please ...'

           
She blew smoke in his face.

           
He choked back a cough. 'Chrissie, I don't want to go on
my own.'

           
'Grow up, Roger.'

           
'Listen, I'm just a little bit scared too, can't help it.
If only for my ... for my reputation.'

           
'Well, naturally.'

           
'But
I
can't
not
go, can I? And say goodbye to everything
… make him, you know ...'
           
'Make him what?'

           
'Angry,' he said pathetically.

           
She couldn't see his face; she didn't want to. She
gritted her teeth. 'Turn it '
round,
I
said.'

Lay off, eh, Frank?'

           
'I wanna know. Come on, he can't just fucking show up,
middle of the night, and not tell us why. Don't want no more fucking mysteries
in this place. Had it up to here with fucking mysteries.'

           
'Go home, Frank, you've had too many.'

           
'Too many what? Listen, fart-face, you're not my fucking
foreman no more. Not your pub, neither. What's your name, mate?'

           
Macbeth had had too many bad experiences of telling his
name to guys in bars. 'Kansas,' he said. 'Jim Kansas.'
           
'... kind of fucking name's
that?'
           
'Frank, if you don't go home
…'

           
'Aye? Go on. Finish sentence, Stan. What you goin' do if
I don't go?'

           
'I shall pick up that big bottle of Long John,' said Mrs
Lottie Castle, appearing in the doorway, 'and I'll use it to bash out all of
your front teeth, Frank Manifold. That's for starters.

Out!
'

           
'It's raining,' Young Frank said.
           
And he giggled. But he went.
           
Macbeth started to breathe
again.

           
'Sorry,' the barman Stan said to him. 'Everybody seems to
be on edge tonight.' The other guys in the bar were draining their glasses,
coming to their feet. 'We'll leave you to it, Lottie, I think. Shut the place,
I would. You'll get no more custom tonight. Not in this.'

           
Now Stan looked meaningfully at Macbeth. Lottie said,
'He's staying.' Stan nodded dubiously and didn't move. 'He's an old friend of
Matt's,' Lottie said. 'Couldn't make it for the funeral.'

           
'Right.' Stan accepted this and shrugged into his
overcoat. 'Night then, Lottie. Good night, Mr Kansas.'

           
Macbeth was curious. This woman didn't know him from Bill
Clinton and here she was letting her regular customers and the help go and him
stay the night. Normal way of things, the woman being a widow, this would've
been no big surprise, he had to admit. But she was a very
recent
widow. Also, she didn't seem to have even noticed what he
looked like.

           
She looked tired. Drained. Eyes swollen. She dragged out
a weary smile.